Volda de Hutt?
by HMRoberts
Summary: Just how did Voldemort accomodate his radically different physical form that emerged from the cauldron of rebirth that night in the graveyard? What if... there were more changes yet to come? NEW! WIP Leans towards future/crack-fic and wildly A/U. EWE, Dumbledore & Light-bashing. Refs to violence, death, torture, major character death(s), Dark!Wins, more. Rating is just in case
1. Chapter 1

Over the years, ( _I am_ )Lord Voldemort, also known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, found out that he hadn't really known enough about Horcruxes, specifically about their effects over time, as he had originally thought.

He was not aware, for example, that simply by using Nagini's venom as a food source (prior to his returning to a more or less human-like form in the graveyard following the Tri-Wizard Tournament), would lead to where he was at now...

"Lord Voldemort aka Snakeman". By Merlin's hairy...! **How** could things have led to _this_?! And what could be done about it?

He really hadn't minded, at first, the snake-like features that he'd wound up with following his rebirth. They'd been rather useful in fact, particularly as an additional fear-factor. No, what had irked him, however, was the fact that the change had... continued.

He hadn't noticed, not at first. In fact, the change had been so slow that it took more than thirty years until his attention was brought to it's beginnings by his now-elderly, but no less still-beautiful, deranged and faithfully love-struck consort, Bella LeStrange-Riddle.

He recalled the horrific denouement only all too clearly. But had it been hubris or some unknown facet of magical " _karma_ " at work that had led to the horror he already was and steadily becoming even more so as time went on?

Would he have done anything differently had he known the price he would pay?

 _ **(More than a quarter century ago...)**_

Yes, he had defeated Harry Potter quite easily, so much so that it had almost been laughable; giving him yet another reason that the Wizarding world had needed his - _reforms_ \- so badly.

Love. The "power of love" was to have been Lord Voldemort's downfall, as per one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. (What hubris or arrogance had Albus' parents had to name their firstborn son as if he was one of the Muggle British Royal Family? Their second-born son, Aberforth, had only been given but the one, Daniel.) It was Voldemort's private opinion that the death of Albus's sister, (the Muggle-attacked and subsequently deranged, Ariana Dumbledore) had begun Albus' descent into, finally, actually transforming into the public face he'd assumed: an addled, old sentimental fool - rather like an over-aged relic American "hippie" from the 1960's!

In his delusional belief, Albus hadn't even killed the psycho- and sociopathic Grindelwald upon defeating him! Instead, Albus had quietly and privately magically confined Gellert behind multitudinous layers of wards; perhaps a nod towards a very warped Wizarding version of "Rapunzel" utilizing the defeated wizard's own stronghold, Nurmengard, in Germany; the last Dumbledore house-elf serving as jailer/caretaker. Rita Skeeter's sensational "unauthorized" biography of Dumbledore had provided Albus's motive in his handling of the love of his youth.

The old fool had made many mistakes by simply having had his hand in too many pies at once; the fatal error of leaving the prophesied "savior" of the Wizarding world to be raised by abusive/neglectful and rabidly magi-phobic Muggles was his worst; ending in the defeat of the "Light"; due to the smarmy old wizard's own misconstrued interpretation of the events of that Halloween's night.

Simply put, Harry Potter hadn't received his infamous scar due to his dead mother's sacrifice having somehow protected the toddler from the Killing Curse. No, Tom had merely stumbled, accidentally stepping on the dead woman's left arm as he stepped forward to do away with the boy, his spell then missing the boy and (by mere chance!) hitting the mirror on the wall behind the child instead. The spell impacted the mirror, shattering it, somehow the flying shards had become curse-embued and had then ricocheted around the room; one jaggedly slicing through the skin and flesh of young Harry's forehead and the majority impacting the wizard himself.

Of course, his physical body had disintegrated into ash instantly, thus releasing his earthbound soul. Earthbound due to the Horcruxes, of course, he was relieved to find.

He was therefore witness to the benighted Dumbledore's Disillusioned arrival on the scene; the wizard must have had some sort of alarm in place; where he next saw, barely a minute later, the arrival of soon-to-be notorious Sirius Black; his inherited, mentally susceptible mind going into full mental breakdown at seeing his only friends laying dead had sent him off to seek revenge on Pettigrew; completely forgetting his Godfatherly obligation to the little boy screaming in terror and pain; for vengeance sake.

After Black's departure, the evidence the Headmaster had then gathered of the magical signature of the Killing Curse was also completely misconstrued by Albus. Finally, Tom watched Dumbledore taking the injured, but still living, child back with him to Hogwarts.

Nigh on ten years later, he'd encountered the now eleven-year-old Harry at the school; having tricked the then-Dark Arts professor, Quirrel into becoming host to Tom's parasitical spirit. His overhearing of Albus speaking to the traitor, Snape; in the corridor outside the troll-damaged washroom, of the prophecy and the Sorceror's Stone; had set Tom on the biggest wild-goose chase of all time.

Infuriating! The years and expenses he'd then spent to retrieve the "full" prophecy; years and resources he could have used to far better ends; only to result in the almost disastrous debacle of the battle at the Ministry of Magic. The only positive result was, unbeknownst to either Albus or Harry, that he'd obtained Potter's memory of the entire, now-laughable, "prophecy" while attempting to possess the badly-damaged mind of the abused and ill-used teenager following the violent, yet brief, battle with Dumbledore in the Atrium of the Ministry.

Prophecy indeed!

Sybil Trelawney; recently widowed and having exhausted the meager means to support herself that had been left to her by her late Muggle husband; had banked on the "mystique" of her family's link by lineage to the infamously cursed Seer, Cassandra, in responding to the ad from the school in the Daily Prophet, seeking a new Divination Professor for Hogwarts. It had been mere happenstance that Severus Snape had chosen the Hogshead for a firewhiskey binge that same evening. The sherry-fueled "prophecy" had been swallowed, hook, line and sinker by the self-aggrandised Headmaster and resulted in more than a decade of theatrical and nonsensical "teaching" by the flamboyantly fraudulent frump.

Voldemort had then wished the taciturn, sallow man had chosen any other pub but that one!

Horcruxes. A now-admittedly poor choice to ensure his immortality, though, after discovering them - in that dusty, heavily Dark-imbued tome in the Hogwarts library - they'd seemed the perfect means at the time. He hadn't meant for Myrtle to die that day, accidentally stumbling in upon her weeping self as he was returning from the Chamber of Secrets with the basilisk (that he'd tamed by the use of Parseltongue and strong compelling spells to be his familiar). However, he capitalized on the serendipitous death of the odious girl, thus with only his diary at hand, Tom had made his first Horcrux. It worked! He'd felt the successful splintering off of the shard of his spirit and it's resultant occupancy in the book, just as that old book had taught!

He'd made his second using Salazar Slytherin's locket.

Firstly, using the Time-Turner he'd stolen from then-Headmaster Dippet's "hidden" Library, he'd gone back in time to when he'd still been an ignorant resident at the orphanage. Posing as a compassionate benefactor, he'd then organized an outing to the coast for the children. Next, using a de-aging potion, he'd swapped places with his younger self and then later used the orphaned brother and sister's deaths to split-off another spirit-shard into the Slytherin locket he'd stolen from his erstwhile employers.

Upon re-aging when the potion wore off, he'd "adopted" the siblings, thereby sealing their fate, whom he'd previously Imperioused before they all rejoined the rest of the orphans. (They eventually became the first Inferi "watchkeepers" that he'd installed in the magically Disillusioned cavern, adding others as the years went by).

Tom had then had an Imperioused Severus Snape brew the Lake of Living Death, as well as the insidious poisoned potion that filled the bowl of the pedestal Tom had then hidden the locket in, afterwards quickly Obliviating Snape; Tom having uncharacteristically forgotten to pay attention to the incoming tide; rapidly dragging the almost insensate then Potion-Apprentice out of the anti-Apparation bespelled cavern and sealing it and Port-Keying out in barely the Nick of time.

Obviously, the Obliviate had not been done correctly in Tom's haste; as Regulus Black, Severus's roommate at Riddle Manor, had pieced together Snape's sleeptalking mutterings and the agonized report of the Black Family's head house-elf, Kreacher, after the Dark Lord had "borrowed" the already elderly house-elf to test the caverns security measures. Due to his own denouement of what being a Death Eater truly meant, he'd set out to find and destroy the Horcrux; only to have to hastily order Kreacher to hide and destroy the real locket before Transfiguring a duplicate that he barely managed to drop into the magically refilled potion-basin; moments before the Dark Lord had Port-Keyed into the cavern himself.

Tom had discovered Regulus' treachery, but not the switch, punishing the traitorous scum by turning him into an Inferi, joining the others already languishing in the Lake.

Unbeknownst to his followers, Voldemort had often gone to their scenes of murder and torture - Disillusioned and Silenced - and subsequently, after transforming some body part of the victim(s) into a replica of the deceased so as to retain the individual magical signature, he'd transferred the real bodies, minus a finger or toe, to the Lake.

By the time of his "death", the Lake had held many hundreds of victims.

He'd made a habit, in an ironic jest, of using Founder's relics to as vessels for his Horcruxes: The Hufflepuff cup, the Ravenvclaw diadem, the Gaunt ring, the locket and diary as well as his familiar, Nagini, had all already been made Horcruxes before that dreadful Hallow's Eve. He'd intended, that night in Godric's Hollow, to find and use the Peverell Cloak in Potter's possession, as his last Horcrux, while serendipitously doing away with the Potter child; the possession of the Cloak having been the reason for choosing the Potter brat over the Longbottom's offspring, based upon that fake "prophecy".

Things had, subsequently, gone horribly awry.

Arising from "death" as a hybrid human-snake, later on, had been bad enough, though temporarily useful.

Having his soul-splinters forcibly reunite with that last portion which he'd retained had been excruciatingly painful, while usefully cluing him in to the breach of secrecy regarding his chosen method of immortality. Obviously, whoever had found out about them was seeking them out, one by one, in order to "destroy" the soul shards each contained.

Horcruxes didn't work that way.

Tenacious as each shard was to remain in their chosen receptacles, the destruction of the vessel did not destroy the shard itself; rather the shard would merely launch out and seek out the "living" soul within whatever physical or quasi-physical form Voldemort was residing in at that time.

Painfully.

The destruction of the diary had caused Tom to retreat, temporarily, into Nagini, thus regaining two shards.

The Gaunt ring's destruction brought yet another, but the synchophantically loyal, yet stupid Peter Pettigrew, had managed, for once, to do something right in enabling Voldemort to once again have an independent physical form prior to regaining that shard, lessening the agony. The murder of a non-descript Death Eater (Barron? Jeffries? What did it matter?) allowed Nagini's shard to be returned to her that night.

The locket, then the cup - these he retained upon reintegration, intending to make new Horcruxes after completing his victory over the deluded forces of the so-called "Light".

 **A/N** This is a _**new**_ story, thus far entitled "Volda da Hutt". I think it may wind up being "crack-fic", due to it's wildly AU/EWE premise, loosely based on two works of sci-fi fantasy-fiction; as imagery and title are referenced and/or borrowed from both "Star Wars" and "God Emperor of Dune". I know, I know. Trust me!

(Length is amorphous at this time, as being a chaptered fic still remains a possibility. I'm merely trusting this, admittedly, very strange muse at this point in time.)


	2. Chapter 2

It was a terrible irony that Voldemort actually _**did**_ lose one shard - the one he'd secreted in the Ravenclaw diadem.

All the fault of the son of one of the pair of almost idiot-savant Pureblood goons; Crabbe, Sr. and Goyle, Sr. that he kept around for brute work as they were far too stupid for more complex tasks. The trait seemed to have, unfortunately, bred true in their offspring as well; only a simpleton like Crabbe's late son would be idiotic enough to conjure Fiendfyre in such a massively-packed room of magical "firewood"! What vast treasures of Wizarding history had been reduced to silent ash by that moron! Voldemort had seethed for weeks.

The loss of the Crabbe heir, so loudly bewailed by his blubbering father, was barely worth registering in Tom's mind. He realized, finally, his concern should only have been the fate of his soul-shard in the "lost" diadem. Finally, many weeks later, long after the fiery spell had finally burnt itself out, he'd returned to the ravaged Room of Requirement and found the twisted, blackened and half-melted remains of the once-proud relic of Rowena Ravenclaw in which, upon casting diagnostic and revealing spells on the ruined object, he determined that his shard had been consumed by the hellish fire, too.

Yet, it was but one-seventh of his almost-restored soul and Voldemort found he could live with that reality, especially in light (!) of the successful conclusion of the so-called "Battle of Hogwarts".

Snape had given Voldemort access to the school and it's wards the moment the caterwauling alarm had sounded in Hogesmead. Thus, the "battle" was over the moment Harry had entered the Great Hall to confront the Dark Lord.

As soon as he'd seen the scion of the Potter's, Tom had Summoned the boy to him, casually Disarming and Body -Binding Harry before the lad even had a chance to pull out his wand. Then he'd cast a hemispherical Shield-Dome (after the experience with the Priori Incantatum in the graveyard during the duel between himself and Harry), that was a recent creation of Tom's specifically for a purpose such as this, as anyone outside of the shielded area was excluded and the shield reflected any spells, including the Killing Curse.

Ensconced within the shielding dome, Tom smirked at just how easily The-Boy-Who-Lived had been brought to bay. As a final touch, after Tom cast a Permanent Stasis charm on Harry, he'd then encased the lad in a brilliantly faceted "living coffin made from solid, magically-enhanced diamond. The mind of Harry Potter continued to throw up a fight as the material; beginning as a puddle of very viscous fluid that looked like thickened water, had then oozed upwards from Harry's feet, covering his body thoroughly; hardened from the bottom up with the young man's face being the last.

Harry Potter was vanquished.

While the vast majority of the Wizarding world (including his followers, Death Eater or no) thought of Voldemort as evil personified, that actually wasn't the case.

Yes, he was often cruel and sadistic, a non-apologetic murderer as well.

But... not _**evil**_.

Evil, as commonly defined, was the conscious doing of deeds (of greater or lesser pain/horror/terror/etc.) purely for the pleasure of doing so.

Such was not the case with Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr. For he **had** a purpose, being the uniquely qualified person that he was, that only he alone could accomplish.

Squib-like that his mother might have been, she did have prodigious talent in one area: Potions.

For more than four generations, the Gaunts had long-since been unable to afford to pay the tuition, even with a "hardship" discount, of a Hogwarts education. Therefore, the family had been exclusively home-schooled. Without even OWLs, much less NEWTs, the family was forced into near-penury, only able to get grunt work jobs with very low pay. A few had gone out into the Muggle world, faring a little better, but not by much.

As time went on, stillbirths and horribly deformed children had narrowed the family line until just the one family was left. In his early adulthood, Gaunt Sr. had kidnapped the by-blow Squib daughter of the Rozier family's heir and a whoreabout Black daughter, the resultant child being sent to an orphanage as a very small child upon confirming her Squib-state.

The girl, in her mid-teens, had been savaged by the Gaunt heir mercilessly. Dosing her with lust and fertility potions and keeping her under Compelling charms as well as Imperioused, Gaunt Sr. had his way with her. Month after month, when the, by now, almost inhuman "baby maker" had her menses, she was beaten and food withheld for "failing to get pregnant". How the girl lived was anybody's guess, but she somehow did.

At last, in defeat, Gaunt tried a new approach. Stealing a potent love draught from a small Apothecary in a neighboring Wizarding village near Little Hangleton, Gaunt dosed the girl daily.

When the next expected date for her menses to begin came and went without it beginning, Gaunt was gleeful. He even cared for the girl as her belly grew round, helping her to eat, bathe and anything else she needed. He didn't love her, of course. She was merely a vessel to grow the next generation of Gaunts.

The baby came early - and it was a girl

Furious, Gaunt stomped and raged, flinging all manner of painful curses at the stupid girl and her useless, mewling infant. Finally, he flung the babe at the insensate girl and stomped off to the village pub with the few remaining coins he'd had left over from the last job he'd been fired from.

While Gaunt Sr. was assuaging his anger and disappointment in cheap booze, the Rozier girl awoke from her stupor. Seeing the snuffling, almost voiceless from hours of screaming, infant by her side as she lay on the still blood- and birth-fluid soaked coarse woolen blanket, the girl drew the baby to her breast where the babe latched on ferociously to nurse at long last.

Once the baby had fallen asleep, the girl crawled out of the disgusting blanket, cutting the cord and seeing she'd delivered the intact afterbirth as well, and tossed it with the whole works onto the still-burning coals of the fireplace.

Acrid, greasy smoke billowed up the chimney as well as into the shack itself; the horrible stench almost unbearable; but the girl got herself over to the broken dresser and pulled out the meager supply of diapers and other infant clothing her "husband" had "procured" ahead of the baby's birth.

Growing up a Squib girl in a Wizarding orphanage had given the Rozier girl firsthand experience with infants, so she handily diapered, dressed and swaddled the infant girl as best she could with her crooked and badly healed arms and hands; Healing spells not being a forté of Gaunt's and no funds to procure potions or salves either.

When the extremely drunk, bloodshot-eyed wizard staggered home, he registered something of a disagreeable odor in the shack, but then his eyes riveted on the ramshackle bed and it's occupants.

Somewhere down in the depths of that horribly corrupted and evil being existed a tiny sliver of compassion; leftover from his own mother's influence, no doubt; that looked upon the wizened girl and her tiny infant and spoke "let them live" into his blackened heart. So he did, since the girl had now proved herself a breeder. Maybe the next time it would be a fine, strong lad?

And so it went.

Almost two years later, a son, indeed, was born. But the, again unattended, birth was harder, and although she lived a few months longer, the Rozier girl finally succumbed and died. Gaunt, unfeelingly, merely Transfigured her body into a rock, tossing it out the back door of the shack.

Meteor was then given charge over her infant brother.

At first, this made her happy. It was like having one of the dolls she'd seen other little girls dandling as the walked or rode in carriages up the hill to the Riddle Manor for "play dates" with the Riddle heir, Tom. But hers really moved and drank his bottle and needed changing... and, well, everything! Maybe her father, Marvolo, was right about all Muggles being stupid, after all!

Morfin, to his father's great delight, turned out to be the great, strapping lad he'd stolen the Squib in order to get from her. Recalling better times and circumstances, he'd named the boy, Morfin and laid all of his hopes and dreams of the family being restored to their rightful place in Wizarding society on the child.

But the instability of the Gaunt lineage came through in Morfin. His babyhood and toddler rages, which Merope was beaten for rather than Morfin, became calculated and ever Darker as he grew. By his pre-teens, he'd already gone out Muggle-baiting many times with his father, enjoying the activity in preference to all mediocre at magic, he despised his near-Squib sister and subjected her to all manner of evil pranks guaranteed to get her in trouble with Marvolo; relishing the sight of his scarred and bruised sister being "punished" by their father again and again.

Merope kept her counsel to herself; daydreaming of the handsome boy that she often saw as he rode past the nearly-invisible shack; her heart becoming set on the only child and heir of Lord Riddle, Tom.

Oh, but how she did dream! Washing the dishes, in her mind's eye she was the maiden rescued by the handsome young man who would fall deeply in love with her and carry her across the horse's candle, up to Riddle Manor; there a grand reception was already underway, as the now-resplendently garbed in a ballgown of the purest white acromantula silk was lifted over the lintel-stone to enter on the arm of her proudly love struck gro...

SMACK!

"Git yer min' back on them dishes, ye lazy, good-fer-nuthin' Squib!" Marvolo then clouted Merope upside her head again, Gor good measuteu but being ready for the blow this time, she was able to absorb the shock by moving with it. Merope had long-ago realized that trying to evade the large man's blows only earned her more punishment and/or worse ones. She'd learned the trick of softening the strikes by moving with them, just enough to lessen the pain, but not to avoid it completely.

"Yes, Father" she said meekly and quietly, getting back to scrubbing the greasy tin plates as best she could with the little hot water she had left and hardly any soap. Morfin had slyly poured out half the kettle of hot water before their father got home from "lookin' fer a p'sishun", aka, down to pub, and then told Marvolo upon his return that Merope had tried to make him go get water at the village well that afternoon, but had to make do with the water in the bucket so he could "study". Marvolo ostentatiously had then poured out a basin of hot water as well as a good handful of the pitifully empty soap-flaked container and then soaked his disgusting, long-toed and gnarled feet in it, claiming his feet hurt from walking about looking for yet another position. Merope knew better than to complain.

Once their meager dinner was made, both Marvolo and Morfin had had mugs of tea, but Merope went without, drinking only a small mug of the now-brackish water from that big bucket in the kitchen, saving the last hot water for the dishes

A round of drudgery one day bled into the next and the next... Daydreams of Tom Riddle kept her going.

Such was Merope's life...


	3. Chapter 3

The denouement should not have come as any surprise, not really.

But, it did.

In the months and the first few years after "The Victory", Tom had been far too busy to pay much attention to his physical appearance; beyond a fondness for loose, flowing black acromantula or regular silk robes (some embroidered, others bejeweled, still others both) with long sleeves and what would have been considered court slippers. His "look" never varied as he wore the same clothing under all circumstances. They wore well and were comfortable, which was all that mattered.

Three days after the triumph of the Battle of Hogwarts, a lavish funeral was held for the spy, Severus Selenius Snape, who'd lost his life so that the Elder Wand would function properly for it's new Master. A quick, merciful (by Voldemort's standards, anyway) death-via-Nagini resulted in the laying of the late Headmaster's mortal remains to rest in the Hogwarts' cemetery, the still-alive(barely) diamond-encased figure of Harry Potter then made a fine headstone for the Potions Master, indeed. Tom certainly enjoyed the exquisitely ironic pairing of these two who had hated one another so fervently. Of course, various wards and alarms had been thickly laid over the entire burial site to ensure neither wizard's final resting place could be disturbed, desecrated or moved. The encasing tomb of highly-polished obsidian bore the true-to-life graven image of a sleeping Snape upon it's surface; all in light-stealing black.

Other "heroes", of the rather truncated so-called war, were laid to rest in the grounds of a special cemetery, on the site that had once borne the dilapidated Gaunt shack Tom's unfortunate mother had been born in.

Little Hangleton, once it was cleared of all non-magical people, became the second all-Wizarding town in England. Whereas Hogsmeade had always been a Light-oriented settlement, Hangston (the new name of the town) was it's opposite, being the home of Dark settlers, shops and the like.

The Ministry of Magic still remained in London however; many of the departments had either been eliminated, their purpose or scope of their responsibility changed or were new departments altogether.

One such new department was the Department of Magical Children; the very heart and soul of Tom's plans for the Wizarding world.

Muggleborns, the magical children of non-magicals, had always been a touchy subject in the Wizarding world. It could be, barely, understood that a child born of magical parents might have so little innate magic that it was practically non-existent, thus resulting in a Squib. But HOW could beings with no magic at ALL bear a fully magical child?

Some could be traced back to at least one Squib ancestor. The majority, however, couldn't. So, how did that happen?

Being a Halfblood that had been raised in a pre-WWII orphanage (that seemed to have come out of that Muggle, the author Charles Dickens, works) one of Voldemort's first actions as the new Chief Warlock of England was to establish the DoMC. It's mandate was to keep an alert watch on the Hogwarts Register for the birth of any magical children out in the Muggle world within the dominion of Great Britain. As soon as a name appeared, a specialized team would be sent out to retrieve the child(ren), change the official and medical documents, Obliviate the parents, medical caregivers or anyone else that had knowledge of the live birth, create an exact replica golem of the child - thus creating the fake story of a stillborn birth - while taking the child into the Wizarding world to be Blood-Adopted into a suitable Wizarding family, usually those who only could bear Squibs or only have one child.

The corollary Department of Non-Magical Persons (DoNMP) dealt with Squibs.

The age at which a magical child would begin to exhibit accidental magic-use varied greatly, but generally this would occur by the age of five or six. As even children with initially very low magical readings could still begin to exhibit using it, the Squib's low readings weren't immediately indicative of a lack of ability to use magic.

Occasionally, a Squib child would even be born without a magical core at all. If the birth of a child like this occurred concurrently with the birth of a magical child, a switch could be made. These "changelings" would thereafter be carefully tracked, as would their descendants, a precaution the Wizarding Realm had overlooked for too long.

The influx of societally-challenging Muggleborns was stopped at long last. They were raised as if having been born into a Wizarding family to begin with, thus eliminating the assimilation issues and fears of exposing the Wizarding world to the Muggles.

"But what about other places around the world. Daddy? Do they do that, too?"

It was the evening meal at Castle Voldemort; Tom occupied the head seat while Tom 's wife; the former Widow Bellatrix LeStrange, now Riddle; sat to his immediate left and their very astute nine-year old son, Salazar, to the right; attended by their silently appearing and disappearing house-elves, liveried in dark green and black , short, toga-like shifts, the Slytherin Snake embroidered on the front in silver thread.

Salazar - also known as Laza (LAH-zah), was encouraged to participate in the discussions at family-only meals; when others were in attendance he kept quiet, unless asked a question directly, which he would answer respectfully and briefly. He was told to otherwise listen to and observe everything and everyone around him. Being a very bright young lad, he didn't miss much.

Laza had just asked if what his friend, Scorpius, had told him about the youngest of two sisters, daughters of the Rozier family; that she was actually a, gasp!, Mudblood.

Reminding Laza that "Mudblood" was no longer an allowed epithet, both Tom and Bella did their best to explain to their son that under the laws of magic, and of their society, Blood Adoption made a child a true member of the adoptive family in every way possible - even genetically. The last Muggleborns that had survived the war and the chaotic aftermath, were given the choice of remaining in the Wizarding world completely (no contact -ever- with non-magical family - who would then be Obliviated and false memories implanted) and Blood Adopted into a Wizarding family - or having their wand snapped, their magic permanently Bound, then Obliviated and given new identities and credentials. The DoNMP also oversaw these individuals.

Oh, certainly, there were still a few backwards-thinkers; the Malfoy's and a few other Pureblood families who stood with them. But, nobody questioned the birth of a new child or the adoption of an infant as being unequal.

There had been a time when Tom would have killed anyone who dared suggest that he ever would be found in such a domestic setting. Now, he himself treasured it.

There had been many changes none would have ever conceived for Tom Marvolo "I Am Lord Voldemort" Riddle!

After having their discussion with Laza, Voldemort was pleased by his son's understanding. But, later that evening, as he settled into the luxurious bed in he and his wife's suite, Tom's world shattered when his beautiful bride had discovered a truly mind-bending fact about her husband that had her (and then HIS!) heart racing.

"Tom, what the hell is THAT?" Bella screeched, pulling away and pointing to her husband's genitalia.


	4. Chapter 4

As his usually ultra-sensual wife back-pedaled in a crab-walk away from him, Tom looked down to see what had set her off so badly.

"Oh, by the slime-green balls of Merlin!" he yelled in disconcerted disbelief at the sight of what poor Bella was shrieking about.

Years earlier...

After the week or so of funerals and general chaos that had pervaded everything and everyone following the battle, Voldemort had called for a full assembly of the Wizengemot. In a very controlled voice, he'd outlined his plans for the Wizarding world, both immediate and future.

One of the first things on his agenda had been to set a carpet pardon on all of the resistance fighters of the so-called Light forces.

"Having bravely fought in a cause that they cherished and defended, many to the death, I can be as magnanimous in the victory so bloodily won as I was ruthless to obtain it." Voldemort spoke from the floor of the chamber. With a wave of the Elder Wand, the centuries-old Inquisition Chair puffed away into dust, which Tom Vanished with a flick of his fingers.

At the same time, the thronelike chair he had sat in at the Malfoy's appeared, directly where the previous Inquisition Chair had been. Moving to languidly seat himself upon it, the chair then rose on a tall dais, carrying the new Chief Warlock to an eye-level with the Members of the Wizengemot sitting in the uppermost tiers of seats. (A sort-of articulated arm immediately beneath it, bore the throne in such manner as to carry the throne to any seat in the entire chamber. Up and down, side to side as well as forward and back - seeming almost snakelike in it's movements.*)

Now, seated upon his throne, Lord Voldemort examined the faces of the, now, former rulers of the British Wizarding people, many of which were also gathered here.

"Make no mistake!" His voice boomed throughout the chamber. "I am not some Dumbledorian benevolent ruler, given to peace at any cost! My fist is hard and heavy, like goblin-made steel and just as swift, sharp and deadly as a viper's strike! Be it known that **I. Rule. Alone.** " The ruby eyes burnt across the filled-to bursting chamber; seeing smirks upon the faces of some of his supposedly most devout and ruthless followers amongst the spectators, those who'd survived the battle, at least. His visage grew even more grim at this; flicking the fingers of his left hand, the bodies of these smirking ones suddenly sailed up and off their seats, to be dropped onto their knees before Voldemort, who sneered down at them.

Obviously, thinking they were about to be granted some boon for their loyalty and service, the group of some dozen or so individuals prostrated themselves before their Dark Lord.

A negligent wave of his hand separated out five individuals: Yaxley, McNair, Malfoy Sr. & Malfoy Jr. - and Bellatrix Black-Lestrange(newly-widowed after her husband Rodolphus fell to the combined wands of both the late Remus Lupin and his wife, Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin - who had also fallen from Rodolphus' simultaneously cast "Bombarda!" that had blown the couple to bits.)

Corban stood proudly within the midst of what he believed to now be THE group of Voldemort's most elite inner circle, as did Lucius, Walden and Bella. Only Draco nervously stood beside and a step back from his father, his eyes downcast.

Voldemort swept his crimson gaze over this group, nodding at them once, before returning his attention to the remaining nine Death Eaters prostrated before him..

Crabbe Sr. and Goyle Sr. knelt beside one another while Mulciber, Nott and Rosier formed a trio to the other side. Kneeling by themselves between the others, were Rabastan Lestrange and the very last of the Marauders, Peter Pettigrew. Finally, Pius Thicknesse knelt beside Avery.

With a snap of his fingers, magic-supression manacles and chains rose up out of the floor of the chamber, ensnaring all of the nine Death Eaters not previously separated. Their surprised cries of dismay before the manacle's magic-suppression effect took ahold were Silenced with another of Voldemort's negligent, wandless waves of his hand.

His voice, as cold as midwinter in Antarctica, spoke out in sneering tones.

"These nine, while giving _lip-service_ to my face, often have acted in their own self-interest rather than as the fingers of my hands." Voldemort began his pronouncement to all assembled, gesturing with a wave across the now-cowering group before him. "Yes, they did offer loyalty and they did stand with me, though," Tom barked out in a rough laugh, "... as far _behind_ me as they could get!"

A wave of nervous laughter and tittering joined the Dark Lord's laughter, until it was cut off as sharply as if with a scalpel by his next words, shouted into the faces of the nine Death Eaters.

"Cowards! Imbeciles! Did you think that I was unaware of the plans each of you had made to escape from the consequences had I somehow fallen in the last battle?" Almost rising up from his throne, red orbs flashing with dire anger and white skin flushing - his words ringing throughout the chamber like death-knell bells. "Did you think I wouldn't **_know_** about your paltry attempts to hide your skimming off of valuables and galleons that were marked for **MY** coffers, but wound up, mysteriously, in your own, instead?"

Each of the nine now cowered even lower. All had known the excruciating pain of the Cruciatus Curse and feared that they were about to subjected to the hellish version of it that was the Dark Lord's; most of all a torture that caused one to relish the idea of a Killing Curse to escape it. All now were weeping, some were begging and pleading silently for mercy before their Master.

" _ **Mercy**_? He bellowed. "For preparing to _betray_ me, cut your losses and run like the vermin you all are? Especially you, Wormtail?" Tom flicked away the Silencing spell, allowing Peter to speak.

Raising his violently shaking arms in a pleading gesture, Pettigrew sniveled and wept. "But, Master, did I not restore you? Was I not always obedient?"

"Yesss, you DID ressstore me. I replasssed your arm for it, did I not?" A dangerously liquid tone permeated Lord Voldemort's suddenly sibilant speech.

"Yes, my Master, you graciously did so." came the quavering reply from the ratlike man.

Voldemort leaned forward, his voice carrying clearly, in a sinister soto voce, to every ear in the Wizengemot chamber.

"Then, do tell, my oh so _obedient_ **Peter** , what happened to that smallish chest of galleons that somehow _disappeared_ from the house of the Stuckey's **_after_** I sent you with Crabbe and Goyle to punish them for their refusal to 'donate' to my cause, hmm? Were you not sent there to rectify this " _oversight_ "? Would not bringing back _**that very thing**_ , what those arrogant silk weavers had refused me, be the very _point_ of that _rectification_? And you _claimed_ it wasn't to be found? Then, tell me, _**Wormtail**_ , how _this_ came to be found; beneath the floorboards under that broken-down, rat's nest of a bed; in your room at Spinners End, the now former home of our late, brave Severus Snape? Hmm?"

Drawing a tiny rectangular box from an inner pocket of his robe, Voldemort floated it across to the table where a defense solicitor would sit at during a trial, settling it gently in the center of the tabletop before hissing the Enlargement counter-charm in Parselspeech. The chest returned to it's normal size, roughly that of a small student's trunk.

Pettigrew swayed on his knees, tears and snot pouring off his face, incoherently gibbering at this solid proof of his infidelity.

"I am feeling somewhat magnanimous, still, today, Peter. I will give you a... **_choice_**." Tom simpered with malevolent glee. "You may choose to either, A - serve one month in my newly remodeled Azkaban prison for _**each**_ galleon, one week for _**each**_ sickle and one day for _**each**_ knut contained in _that_ chest..." Voldemort turned, pointed to the chest, then grinning more now, he drawled"Or you _could_ choose B - serve twenty-five years, BUT! "Tom paused dramatically. "But, upon your release, you will receive half of the current contents of this same chest, rounded down to lesser galleon, of course." He chuckled, before settling back onto his throne languidly, steepling his unnaturally long-fingered hands below his chin, the Elder Wand barely dangling below them, feigning indifference.

Pettigrew stilled. Either choice was fraught with terrible cost. He'd already spent nearly half his life living as a rat, a child's pet rat no less.

He had once thought being on the winning side would finally give him the life he'd always longed for. He soon realised he'd erred - _badly_. Knowing his own repugnant self all too well, he'd had no longer any illusions of lavish rewards from his chosen Lord, despite having been the one to restore him to physical form. He'd seen, first hand, the kinds of _**rewards**_ the snake-visaged dark wizard doled out. He knew he'd have to procure his own rewards - but cautiously. He thought he'd succeeded. The raid in question _had_ been almost two years ago, now, after all.

He'd had _no_ resources, not even a vault of any worth at Gringott's.

He'd been to the Pettigrew vault in the days after the Dark Lord's return; it was his by right of heirship, as the death of his sickly mother during his time as Scabbers had left him with sole ownership. Marietta Pettigrew, his mother, had only had access to a monthly "household vault" that was replenished each month and the contents of her own personal vault to which the dowry she'd been given upon her marriage to Peter's father had been deposited (a truly uncommon occurrence, as the money given generally was added to the main vault a year and a day after the marriage rite.

After enduring the torturous cart ride down to the family vault; just above those of the oldest, Pureblood ones; Peter had stood, rubbing his hands together greedily in anticipation of the vault's abundant contents - (having only had access to his, admittedly generous, trust vault previously) which he'd only ever seen _once_ , the day after graduating from Hogwarts, to sign the heirship documents, retrieve the substantial remainder of his trust fund and to be given a new key to the main vault itself; he had impatiently waited for the goblin to open the vault. Once unlocked, he even shoved the goblin aside in his eagerness, only to stop in shock and crushing despair.

It was empty, save for an oddly shaped little skeleton that clutched a dusty scroll. Nothing else remained of the previous treasure.

Peter had dropped to his knees in disbelief and non-comprehension. Turning to the frowning goblin, Pettigrew managed to squeak, "Wh-wh-where is it all?"

Steelshearer, hating the ratlike wizard that had just treated him like a house elf, smiled, showing all of his wickedly sharp teeth as he replied, "This is all there is, _wizard._ "

"But, that can't be! There-there-there were ch-chests of jewelry a-a-and r-r-rare books and PILES of galleons when last I was here!" Peter wrenched at his sparse hair with both hands, staring about the looming emptiness, stammering in horror.

Steelshearer gave an uncharacteristic bark of laughter. "You were declared by your Ministry as _officially_ _ **dead**_ , Mr. mother was then granted sole beneficiary and used all that was here in her futile attempts to find a _cure_. All that was left by the time she died was Tookins, your mother's house-elf that she bought after you had been declared legally "dead". Nodding to the skeleton, he continued. "He must have popped himself here, evidently, after she died." The goblin walked over and bent, removing the scroll from the skeletal hand, whereupon the entire skeleton crumbled to a sparkle of dust, then it was gone.

Steelshearer handed the scroll to the still-kneeling Peter, who took it in trembling hands, broke the seal and began to read.

It was merely the _deed of sale_ for the Pettigrew house - and it's contents, too. This, too was gone and, as Steelshearer informed him, upon questioning, the entire proceeds of that had been used to place and pay for Mrs. Pettigrew's care in the Hogsmeade Elder Care Home, where she'd died not long after, still mourning her "heroic" son's death.

There was nothing. Not even one knut.

Now, kneeling in terror before the Dark Lord, Peter frantically tried to make his gibbering mind remember how many coins _were_ in the chest. Oh, it had been true that the little "justice" raid on the home of Marcus Stuckey; the owner of the only Acromantula-silk weaving company in England; hadn't yielded any money-chest _that_ night, though they'd carried back all the other, portable, valuables that Peter, Goyle and Crabbe had found: some slightly valuable jewelry, the family's silver-plate, a few incredibly expensive and rare tapestries woven with the Acromantula silk and a set of very valuable gem studded, goblin-made steel daggers.

But...

While cleaning out the modest, two-story country cottage, Peter; his eyes honed by life as a rat; had noted several of the bricks in the hearth of the living room fireplace were somewhat out of place and less dirty than their neighbors. But, this hadn't been Peter's mission, it had been Crabbe and Goyle's. He was only along as an extra wand at Voldemort's order. If _they_ hadn't noted the anomaly, why should _he_ tell them? They were nothing more than big, dumb brutes incapable of harboring an analytical thought between them, after all. They'd only passed three OWL's (Care of Magical Creatures, Divination and Herbology, all "A's") and the same for NEWT's it was the same). All they _really_ had going for them was old family money and being Purebloods. Why should they be the ones to have grand country manors, fine clothing and plenty of the finest of food and drink, served by squads of house-elves?

Why shouldn't he, Peter Pettigrew, " He-Who-Restored-the-Dark-Lord", not have _some_ small bit of that for himself?

A week later, he'd gone back in the dead of night and dug through the charred remains of the house until he'd cleared off the hearth. Heart beating wildly, he'd shakily moved the bricks, then cast a Lumos and had found the chest beneath the bricks just as he'd suspected! Shrinking the heavy chest and casting a Featherweight charm upon it, he'd Apparated straight to Spinners End; the crumbling ruin of a Muggle house that Voldemort would eventually laughingly grant to him; then he'd secreted the chest beneath a couple of loose floorboards under the bed in his bedroom. Severus hadn't been home to see or hear anything.

Peter had laughed and squealed with delight. He'd done it - and none the wiser!

Or so he'd thought.

Oh, he knew exactly how many of each coin were in the chest. He'd counted them often enough when Snape had been in his cellar potions lab. (Like the great dragon, Smaug, in the Muggle book, "The Hobbit", he knew every galleon, every sickle and every knut. Like the dragon, Peter, too, would strip down and lie upon the mass of coins; every coin represented a lack of want and a security he so desperately **_needed_**.**)

But the question was, did he want to get out sooner; without _any_ means of support and little to no prospect of finding a job to keep body and soul together; or serve a longer sentence but have at least _some_ means of support, maybe enough to make a few, _small_ , investments with Gringott's?

The answer was quickly given.

Peter would be in upper middle age, when he got out, but he wouldn't be a beggar, either.

The other wayward Death Eaters were dealt with just as summarily.

Then, it was **_time_**.

"My beautiful, deadly, pass-s-s-ionate Bellatrix. Come to me, my witch." Tom had drawled in a low hiss.

A/N: Acknowledgements:

First - DISCLAIMER: I do not own nor derive any financial remuneration from the purely entertainment-making of a piece of fiction. J. , her partners and business associates are the sole owners of anything of theirs.

* This device is unashamedly both "borrowed" from and an homagé to the very first "Star Trek: The Next Generation" episode (STNG-S1:E1, E2 "Encounter At Farpoint")

** DISCLAIMER: I do not own nor derive any financial remuneration from the purely entertainment-making of a piece of fiction. J.R.R. Tolkien, his assays, heirs, estate and, their partners and business associates are the sole owners of anything of theirs referenced within this work of derived fiction

PLEASE READ & REVIEW? Thank you!


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